Chapter 11
Woodrow—aged seventeen
Ileft my bed the second my eyes opened; I didn’t give myself time to come around, or to notice the diary that had been left open on the floor.
I needed to throw on some clothes after having slept completely naked.
I looked over to the door, my chair wedged under the handle, as always. I didn’t remember much of the events where I was myself—the events between switching alters—thanks to the concussion I was surely suffering.
Last night, my father had beat me to within an inch of my life before Hell stepped in to save me.
But fuck knows what else he had done. Couldn’t have been as bad as I thought, because my only other memory of being myself last night, was my father coming into my room to tell me he was proud of how I’d controlled the monster inside me.
I didn’t feel like I had control. I felt it slipping away. Hell, climbing to the surface again.
I didn’t answer my father as he smiled at me from the doorway, blood staining his shirt, alcohol strong on his breath—a new bottle in hand that he must have popped out for.
The second he left, I barricaded the door and collapsed onto the bed.
. . confused over everything, including the minutes prior.
I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust me as Hell took over for a few more hours of my life, doing who knows what in this devastated room.
The covers still lay as I left them, half hanging off my bed.
The pains in my body and all the bruises covering it, had me wondering how I’d managed to control the monster. How Hell hadn’t sliced open my father’s throat with one of the broken pieces of glass lying on my bedroom floor.
My body pained me as I sunk into my sweats. If there was a mirror in this room, I’d have seen that I was more shades of blue and purple than I was white. I looked like the damn love child of Barney and that female smurf that all the other smurfs swooned over.
I threw on a t-shirt, grateful that the size swamped me. Grateful for no pressure on any of my bruises.
I dropped to the floor, my fingers pulling the diary out from beneath my cascading bed sheets, placing it in a comfortable reading position as I tried to remember anything I did in between the switches.
I couldn’t remember anything. . . but I somehow felt like the worst human alive. Blank spaces filled the space of my recent memories. But I knew Hell worded his actions in the book riddled with our life stories because it was open on a page that I didn’t recognize. . . and written in blue pen.
Something I never did, always opting for black.
I was scared to look, but I knew I had to know what had happened here last night.
The bold blue words smiled up at me from the sheet. The pen was still in the centerfold, no lid in sight, the ink drying up.
I shook my head, scanning the words he’d written. I had to ignore the pain in my throat to do such a simple action. “No, no, no.”
My fingers splayed my face, not in time to stop a tear from falling to the page and smearing the blue ink of Hell’s latest input more than what it already was, thanks to us being left-handed.
He’d done so many shitty things; he’d stabbed my mother, the reason left void, so I had no fucking clue as to why. I kept reading, wishing I’d stopped there.
He hurt her.
My girl.
And he was fucking proud of it.
More tears dropped, and I almost stopped taking in the words. Looking at the glass on the floor as I wondered how painful it would be to drag it across my throat. But I had to know how bad it was, and I had to apologize for it before I did anything else.
She was tight when I slammed inside her.
But I liked it.
She didn’t. . . she didn’t like me touching her.
She cried, begging me to stop.
But I wouldn’t.
Maybe you’ll be happy to hear that Daddy dearest was watching the whole time. Proud of us, for once.
Congratulations, Woodrow, you lost your virginity last night, and it was with the girl you love.
I choked on a sob, feeling sicker than I ever imagined being. One hand reached for my mouth, the other threw the details of the night across the room. I launched to my feet and rushed to the door, yanking the chair out of the way, not caring about the racket it made falling into the distance.
I stepped into the hall in time to see my father shuffling my mother into their room, a bandage wrapped around her thigh as she limped.
“Momma. . .” I tried to talk, stopping dead in my tracks.
“I don’t want to talk to you.” Her voice was cold and distant, but that was nothing new.
“Momma, I‘m so sorry.” I stepped forward, my hand out to reach for her.
She turned away, as always, shunning me, also, like always.
“I don’t know why he did it.”
“Don’t worry, hun,” my father said, accepting almost all of her tiny weight. “We found a way to control him last night.”
She twisted her neck to gaze up at him.
His words had hate rising to my mouth, and I didn’t want the taste in my mouth.
“Shut the fuck up. I know what you did!” I was getting louder and louder as I stepped closer.
I controlled myself, partly because I didn’t want to intimidate my mother, but mostly because I didn’t want to risk another switch.
I let out a painful breath—one I didn’t deserve—and then I continued, “How the fuck could you sit back and watch as he did that to her! How could you be proud!”
“Woodrow, it’s time you learned that sometimes God works in mysterious ways. Doing this, controls you. That helps us as a family. Family is what is important.”
“And what about her.” I pointed down the hallway to the room where Jolie stayed. “We welcomed her into this family!” I struggled with my emotions, trying and failing to keep them from the surface, just in case I wasn’t the one dealing with them when they got there.
“It’s not as bad as you think, kid. This way, she lives. . . as long as you behave. Any other master would kill her, in time. You don’t have to do that. She’s yours to do with as you will. To keep him in line.”
“I can’t hurt her like you expect me to. I can’t do that to her. I love her. I love her too much to ever want to do something like that to her again.” I looked to my mother, trying to reach the soul that slipped away before I was born. “Momma, please—” I begged, clutching the beads around my wrist.
“She doesn’t know what happened, and she’s too high on pain pills to discuss this right now!” my father’s stern words cut me off.
“I won’t hurt her again.” But I hurt myself shaking my head in confirmation.
“In time, you will.” He laughed, and the vodka scent from his breath drifted into my nostrils and choked me. He’d had more to drink this morning. “You’re your father’s son, after all.”
“I won’t. I’m nothing like you. I won’t.” I said it so many times, I felt like I was trying to convince myself.
“Take me to bed.” My mother ended our conversation, just as the door to Jolie’s room opened and pulled my attention down the hall.
I careened back for a split second. “I am sorry, Momma. Forgive me.” But she didn’t hear me, as the door slammed in my face.
Jolie
I was scared to open the door, but Nessie heard her mother’s voice, and she was eager to go see her. I’d kept her in here for as long as I could already.
I glanced at the clock on the wall, the horsetail—pink, like everything else in here, including my tear-stained eyeballs—going around again. The ticking hand approached a new minute. 12:05 p.m.
Nessie’s stomach rumbled again. She hadn’t been up long, but it had been making noises for the thirty minutes that she had, interrupting the defiling of an antique doll's house with bright-colored marker pens.
The house, pretty and pink, a hand-me-down, once belonging to her dear old grandmother—a woman whose face sat inside many picture frames, her smile, often the only thing lighting up the darkness of the hallways—had been dishonored many times before, judging by its ruin.
“Can I go see Momma?” She looked back at me, hope on her pretty face.
I stared at her for a moment, hating that she was sitting only feet away from the stains of my trauma. I’d told her I’d had a nosebleed—a lie she so easily believed in her innocence.
She was groggy today, climbing to her feet slowly. I half thought she was channeling my hangover.
“Of course.” I walked her to the door, removing pieces of furniture and toys, one by one, with very shaky hands.
Her little face looked up at me. “You don’t have to be scared now. Woodrow is back; I can hear him. The bad one is gone.” She still didn’t voice his name, too scared she’d conjure him from his namesake.
I nodded, not sure what to say, and I stepped out into the hallway.
I glanced down the hall, seeing the conversation Woodrow was having with his parents.
Even from here, I could see the remorse on his face, the stress, too.
I saw none on Ville’s as he squinted over to me before stepping inside the room and slamming the door shut.
My stomach churned, and the motion dug up all the nightmares I’d suffered last night. I’d barely slept, because each time I tried to, it—my abuse—would happen again. . . only in my nightmares, Ville didn’t just watch, he’d participate.
Nessie found her energy, sprinting down the length of the corridor, chirping, “Momma, Momma!”
I didn’t see her disappear into her parents’ room. I didn’t see her and Woodrow ignoring each other, in typical sibling fashion, as if nothing at all had happened to strain their bond as his legs strummed in the opposite direction. Towards me.
I’d already turned away, trying to rush on wobbling legs to the last door on the right—the bathroom.
“Jolie. . . Jolie, wait!”
I kept moving, but Woodrow caught up quickly. Pulling me around to face him, he lost the ability to speak. I couldn’t speak, either, and now that the alcohol coddling my emotions had fully worn off, I felt terrified.
I stared up at him, my eyes wide, mouth open, body trembling. The hard wall behind assisted me to stand.